


Beards of the Great Northern War

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Military Uniforms, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 15:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6085917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zetterberg is assigned a new aide de camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beards of the Great Northern War

**Author's Note:**

> The Great Northern War was a conflict between Russia and the Swedish Empire that lasted from 1700-1721.
> 
> It is unclear if the Ekblad and Zetterberg families fought in the conflict... but that means it's unclear if they didn't. Good enough.
> 
> For V and C.

There was a series of days while they laid in camp and established supply lines that largely served as days of rest for Henrik and the other officers. Rest meant catching up on paperwork, of course, and reviewing the men on a regular basis, but the constant air of crisis had eased somewhat, and it was possible to breathe, sleep decently, enjoy a cigar and a brandy in the evenings with one another.

Henrik was enjoying one such an evening with his fellows of rank when Lundqvist, the head of the division, walked into the officers’ mess and brought all conversation to a halt.

“Zetterberg,” he said, his voice booming out through the sudden silence. “Henke, a word with you, if I may.”

It was not a request. Lundqvist was entitled to a word whenever he wished it. Henrik rose to his feet, left his brandy behind, and followed him outside.

“Relax, Henke, it’s nothing terrible.” Lundqvist smiled at him, the dead-eyed, lifeless smile that came with a long campaign. “I only wished to let you know that your request has been honored, and a new aide de camp has been assigned to you.”

“Oh.” Henrik had filed that requests months ago, before the last advance on the Russian lines. He’d nearly forgotten about it. “Promoted from the ranks here?”

“Ah, no. He’s a new call-up. From a landed family, very green but very eager. Terribly young, but doesn’t look it. You’ll do wonders with him I’m sure.” Lundqvist clapped him on the shoulder. “His name is Ekblad and I’m sure he’s waiting in your tent already, so if you’d be so good as to introduce yourself and break him in a bit, we are preparing a forward sally for the day after tomorrow.”

Henrik was never fool enough to argue with Lundqvist. “Of course, sir.”

“Good man, Henke.” He clapped him on the shoulder again. “Try to keep this one in one piece. He might be worth something one day.”

**

Ekblad was, as said, young and green and eager. His uniform was pristine, his beard perfectly trimmed. Henrik made a note to himself to have the boy take over grooming and trimming _his_ hair and beard in the mornings. It was an acceptable job for an aide de camp, especially one who couldn’t be expected to be of great help with military planning.

The boy had clearly paid attention to his studies; he could parrot every textbook answer about tactics and strategy that Henrik could dredge up questions for. It came across not as arrogant, but well-prepared and desperate for praise. 

Unfortunately Henrik couldn’t offer that praise, because textbook answers meant fuck-all against the Russians.

“Watch closely and learn what you can,” he said as he dressed for the advance. “You and I should be well out of the way of the main fighting, but if that changes, your first duty is to protect me, then the other officers, then yourself.”

“I know, sir.” Ekblad nodded seriously. “I will guard you with my life.”

“Yes. Well. That’s the idea.” Henrik sighed and pulled on his gloves. “Ideally I’d like you to remain alive, though, because it took me months to get you assigned and who knows when they’ll bother to send me another one if you’re killed in action.”

**

The advance was bloody and fierce and less futile than most of them had been. Henrik returned to his tent covered in soot from the muskets and cannons, but unbloodied and untorn.

Ekblad had run and ridden messages about the field for him during the engagement, as was his duty, and Henrik was surprised to see that his jacket was torn, singed, and stained with blood in several places.

“Only a bit of it is mine, sir,” the boy said, lifting his chin proudly. He had a vicious black eye, as well, likely delivered by a musket butt or a sword hilt. “I assisted several of our wounded to the medical tents.”

“Instead of returning promptly to my side?” Henrik asked as mildly as he could.

Ekblad frowned a bit, then nodded, clearly bracing himself. “I considered it my duty to my countrymen, sir.”

“Well enough.” Lundqvist would have turned this into scolding and a lesson, but Henrik was too exhausted to manage it. “Help me undress, please, I’ll need a clean uniform when Lundqvist summons us to debrief.”

Ekblad hastened to assist, undoing Henrik’s buttons one by one and guiding his coat off his shoulders. He followed it with the vest—so many fucking buttons, what fool in the royal service thought this was sensible for soldiers—the overshirt, the undershirt, until finally he reached Henrik’s skin, sweat-slick and pale.

Henrik cleared his throat, trying not to notice the boy’s soot-dark hands against his own body. “Boots, please; I can handle the rest myself. You should change into a clean uniform as well, Lundqvist values a tidy appearance in these meetings.”

“I’m to attend, sir?”

“You’re my aide, Ekblad. Always by my side.”

A flush rose in the boy’s cheeks. “Yes, sir.” He knelt to unlace and remove Henrik’s boots, his fingers quick and sure on the leather. Henrik’s eyes drooped half-shut, the swift steady contact oddly soothing. When Ekblad slipped each boot free, Henrik groaned at the release and wiggled his toes in his stockings.

Ekblad looked up at him from the floor, eyes wide and earnest, then remembered himself and rose, stepping away to his cot to begin removing his own uniform. Henrik watched from the corner of his eye while stripping out of breeches, smallclothes, and stockings, then turned to the basin and sponge to clean the worst of the sweat and dirt from his body.

He knew it was adrenaline and nothing more prompting the heat in his blood and the stirring in his loins. Still. It was not difficult to allow himself to watch Ekblad in the mirror over the basin, a reflected vision of himself undressing to his skin and moving to his own basin and sponge, body pale and well-muscled in the flickering lantern light.

Perhaps they could be a few moments late to Lundqvist’s briefing, Henrik thought distantly. Technically they hadn’t even been summoned yet.

“Ekblad,” he said, stepping into a clean set of smallclothes and reaching for his dressing gown. “Take a moment, eh? We should celebrate your first engagement.”

The boy looked up from the small trunk that held his possessions. “Sir?”

Henrik moved to his camp desk and removed the bottle of vodka from the bottom drawer. “A drink or two in celebration, that’s all. Tradition and good luck for the future and all that.”

The boy approached the desk in smallclothes and stockings, a tentative smile on his face. “Thank you, sir.” 

Russians or no Russians, Henrik was truly damned. He found it impossible to care. “Drink up, my boy. The only way to live here is in every moment.”

They drank, and Ekblad coughed slightly. “A better class of vodka than I’m accustomed to, sir.”

“Rank has privileges, or so I’m told.” Henrik turned away from the desk, grimacing at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. Lundqvist would absolutely say something.

“Wash your face, sir,” Ekblad said, with enough diffidence to make it a suggestion. “I’ll give you a shave and a trim. We still haven’t been summoned, so there should be time.”

“A good idea.” Henrik nodded and went back to the basin. He washed his face quickly, listening to Ekblad move about the tent. He was green but a good lad. Clever. Eager.

He took a slow breath, ordering himself to be calm, and returned to his desk to sit on the camp stool and await Ekblad’s attentions.

Ekblad still had not put on trousers or a shirt. He settled the shaving kit on the desk, considered Henrik carefully, then took the brush and pot of shaving cream and began applying it carefully.

Henrik closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Just make it tidy. Don’t get creative.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a hint of a laugh in Ekblad’s voice. “I’m familiar with how it’s done.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I’ll tidy yours for you next.”

“That would be against protocol, sir, wouldn’t it?” The razor touched Henrik’s skin as Ekblad spoke. “To touch a subordinate that way.”

Henrik cleared his throat carefully. “Well. That depends on if it’s reported to Lundqvist or not, I suppose.”

“The letter of the regulations versus the spirit?” 

“Something like that.”

“Hmm.” Henrik heard the razor dip into the basin of water, and a moment later it returned to the other side of his face. “That’s good to know, sir.”

“What is?”

“That there is a space between the letter and the spirit in which to maneuver.”

“Only with great care.”

“Of course.” Ekblad rinsed the razor again and moved on to Henrik’s throat. They both kept silent for that.

When it was over, though, and Ekblad proceeded to comb and trim Henrik’s beard and hair, Henrik opened his eyes and looked up at him. “Ekblad.”

“Yes, sir?” The boy was frowning, concentrating hard on combing Henriks’ hair neatly back from his forehead. 

“Were you perhaps… inquiring as to something?”

Ekblad’s hands slowed and stopped. “When, sir?”

“Just now.”

He met Henrik’s eyes. “Could you perhaps be… more specific?” 

Henrik took the comb from his hand and tossed it down onto the desk. “Regarding space in which to maneuver.”

“Oh.” Ekblad nodded slightly. “There was a spirit of inquiry, sir. Yes. If… if such a spirit would be not unwelcome.”

“I see.” Henrik got to his feet slowly, giving the boy time to step back in body and in mind, to retract his words if he wished to.

Ekblad didn’t step away, though, standing his ground with his chin lifted and his face flushed. Henrik reached out and traced his fingers slowly over Ekblad’s jaw, his own untrimmed beard. He would absolutely help him with that, later. For now, though…

He leaned in and kissed him, slowly and carefully, pressing his tongue to the boy’s lips until he yielded with a soft, eager sound. Once they began a tide of heat and passion rose in Henrik’s chest, propelling him forward to guide Ekblad across the tent to his field cot.

The sight of Ekblad on the cot, stretched out and waiting eagerly for Henrik’s instruction, was nearly too much to bear. He stood still for a moment, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to stop pounding. 

Ekblad licked his lips, watching Henrik’s face closely. “Sir,” he said, his voice low and unsteady. “Please.”

Henrik nodded, returning to the cot in a rush. He braced himself over Ekblad’s body and claimed his mouth in another kiss, losing himself in heat and the lingering taste of the vodka. He was distantly aware of Ekblad’s hands moving between them, pushing his own smallclothes aside and then reaching for Henrik’s, struggling with the cloth until it was gone and their bodies were pressed together, skin to skin.

Ekblad’s hands became shy suddenly, touching lightly at Henrik’s hips and sides, suddenly unable to find a place to rest. Henrik pulled back from kissing and reminded himself of his duty to teach and guide. “Relax,” he said, startled at how the boy’s body shuddered in response to his voice. Startled but not displeased, certainly. “May I touch you?”

Ekblad laughed breathlessly. “Of course, sir.”

Henrik skimmed his hands down Ekblad’s chest, tugging lightly at the thick, tawny hair there. When he reached the flat plane of his belly below the ribs, he lowered his head, licking a lazy, teasing circle. He traced it again once with light, teasing kisses, and a second time with harder ones that just threatened to bruise. It was teasing, taunting really, flooding the boy’s body with sensation while not moving any closer to where he surely _wanted_ his superior’s attentions. His cock was hard, pushing at Henrik insistently while he used his mouth on more innocent skin, and Henrik knew that if he touched any part of the zone of his sex it would be hot to the touch and damp with sweat and anticipation.

“Please,” Ekblad moaned again, arching beneath him on the cot. “Please, please. Sir.”

Henrik was far from a saint to this point in his life, in thought or action, and he could never hope to reform himself now. “Relax,” he said again, moving up to kiss the boy’s mouth properly while he used his knee to coax his thighs apart. “Breathe slowly and deeply, yes? You’re beautiful.”

Ekblad just gazed at him, perhaps not daring to reply to such a compliment, and Henrik let the silence stand, pulling away to take the tin of leather cream from its place on top of his trunk with the other supplies to maintain his boots. It perhaps wasn’t ideal, but it was enough slickness to serve. Henrik coated his fingers thickly with it, then pressed them to Ekblad’s opening, carefully working to prepare him.

“Oh,” Ekblad gasped. “Oh, s-sir, I don’t know if I—”

“Breathe,” Henrik reminded him, slowing the movement of his fingers. “Relax for me, hm? Imagine how I’ll feel buried inside you, how good it will be to take me. It’s good when I touch you, yes? This will be even better, I swear it.”

The boy nodded, his eyes half-closing as Henrik moved his fingers again. “I trust you, sir, I know that you only want the—oh.” He moaned, his hips rising up from the cot, and Henrik knew his resistance was gone, transformed into hunger. “Oh, _please_ , yes, sir, I’m… I’m ready.”

Henrik took a moment to steady himself, taking hold of his cock with his other hand and guiding himself into position before pulling his fingers free. Pushing into Ekblad’s body, burying himself deep with a single controlled thrust, it was as good to himself as he’d promised the boy. He ducked his head, letting his mouth find Ekblad’s again in a rough kiss as he thrust home and stilled, letting the wave of sensation break over them both.

Ekblad’s hands grasped for Henrik, catching him by the hips and holding him close against his body. Henrik imagined he would find the marks of fingers across his buttocks, bruises in rough arcs of desperation. The thought drove him to begin to move, settling into a steady rhythm of thrusts that took him deep into Ekblad’s body and dragged his abdomen against the boy’s hard cock, trapped between them in a state of hot, ready anticipation.

Henrik had been in the field for too long to be able to last as long as he wanted, and Ekblad had youth’s eagerness to fall and rise again. They lay entangled for a few moments, trading quick, silent kisses and letting sweat and seed dry on their skin, before Henrik finally sighed against Ekblad’s mouth and withdrew from his body, making him shiver and bite back a pained groan.

“All right?” Henrik asked, keeping his voice low as the fog of lust faded from his mind and he remembered, again, that they were in the center of camp.

Ekblad nodded, looking down at himself. “Yes. It just felt—”

Henrik nodded back, not requiring him to finish. He remembered it well himself. “We should clean up. Lundqvist’s man will be here at any moment.”

“Yes, sir.” Ekblad rose slowly from the cot and moved to the basin. Henrik allowed him first wash, returning to his desk and pouring another two small cups of vodka with an unsteady hand. 

Certain things remained inevitable in war, he thought, watching Ekblad go through his ablutions. Surely it was best to be sure they occurred as comfort to both parties, and injury to none. And as for the heart, well—

Who brought their hearts to a battlefield?


End file.
